


Happy, Anya?

by wildenessat221b



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Eating Disorder, Gen, Happy Ending, Poor Yuri, the mandatory 'therapist made me write a diary' fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 04:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10550280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b
Summary: Yuri's therapist asks him to write a diary.And to everyone's surprise, he actually does.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome! Please abide the tags, my dears, nothing graphic but read with caution. Please enjoy!

My name is Yuri Plisetsky, I'm sixteen years old and I'm fucking depressed.

Happy, Anya?

***

You said you wouldn't read this but you will, of course you will because it's your job. 

It's your job to lie to people and prescribe shit and smile and chew the tip of your pen and pretend that you see people and not a paycheque when they walk into your painfully cheerful little room.

It's my job to deflect and avoid the question, and pretend that everything is okay and refuse to comply. But I'm not going to do that, because I want to keep you on your toes and see the look on your face as you try to pretend next week that you haven't read this. 

Hi Anya.

I know you're reading.

My name is Yuri Plisetsky, I'm sixteen years old and I'm fucking depressed. 

***

Why am I fucking depressed?

I don't know, it's your job to find out. It's your job to find out, or pretend to have found out then try to convince me that you've worked out why my brain has gone to shit.

I suppose I should give you something to work with, it's only fair. 

I'll go slowly. 

Look at who brought me in here. Look him up and down. Done? He doesn't look like me, does he? 

Have a think, genius, what does that mean?

He's not related to me. I'm sixteen years old and it's not my parents bringing me to therapy. 

Got it?

Excellent. 

Point One: Deadbeat Parents. 

Tick.

That one filed away? 

Smashing. Fucking smashing. 

Next, look away from the guy who brought me in, I know it's difficult, people rarely do (is that bitterness? Well done, you're getting good at this, but we'll get back to that later, be patient) and look at me. 

I'm quite short, but that's got nothing to do with my mental state, idiot, so look down, further. 

That's a baggy shirt isn't it?

Just... hangs off me. 

My cheekbones are pretty sharp too, aren't they. 

Check your notes, asshole. 

Go on... no no, further down. I'm a figure skater. I'm very good. I'm very very good. So people take pictures of me, a lot of pictures. And also, people fill arenas to watch me fly. 

And you know what the easiest way is to fly? 

It's to weigh nothing at all. 

Have you got it? Yes, you read right. Read it again, I know you want to. 

And... yes. Yes, brilliant.

Point Two: Eating Disorder.

Tick.

No, you haven't accidentally lapsed into a cliché teen novel, or a psych dictionary. This is still the fucking diary that you told Yuri Plisetsky to write, and thought that he wouldn't. 

I'm being open, that's what you wanted isn't it?

What, disappointed? 

Am I too predictable?

Life imitates art, and you're a snob if you think that cliché teen novels aren't art. 

Now, one more point. 

You remember don't you?

Go back a couple of pages if not, it's okay, I said I'd go slow. 

Ah yes, the bitterness. 

Excellent. 

Now, look back at the guy that brought me in. You recognise him, don't you? Got him on your wall? Thought so. 

Isn't he tall, isn't he model-esqué? Elegant, stunning?

You sighed didn't you, of course you did. 

First of all, he's taken and you're about twice his age, however old he looks, and second of all, asshole, you're here about me. 

Now, read back. 

Yes, good.

Point Three: Living In The Shadow Of Viktor Nikiforov.

Tick.

Got enough to go on for now? Brilliant. 

***

Do I hate Viktor?

That's a shit question, Anya.

No, of course I don't. 

It's a tricky one though, because I do a little bit. I don't hate him because I'm jealous of him, I hate myself for that. And I enjoy watching him; what's an artist who can't appreciate art? 

No, I hate him because he loves me, and he cares about me, and I want nothing more and nothing less. 

His husband invites me to dinner (because he's the nice one, the hospitable one, the one that's not an airhead who forgets things as soon as he's told them) and pretends that it wasn't Viktor's idea. He puts ice on my feet, he watches me eat, he even braids my hair. 

And I hate it, because he loves me, and I don't want to be loved by anyone who isn't my parents because then I'd have to acknowledge that there is a problem there. 

"But you've written it down," I can hear you say, in your calm little therapist voice.

Yes Anya, I've written it down. 

I'm admitting it to you, I'm admitting it to the paper, just not to myself. 

I'll have denied all knowledge by the time I'm staring at the ceiling tonight.

***

Are there good things in my life? 

Yeah, of course there are. 

There's skating, which is good, even though I suppose you could say it's the root of my problem. This isn't sadism, before you start sharpening your therapist claws. I can just keep the two separate. There's skating and there's the stuff skating makes me do. 

There's grandpa. He's old, and I can't see him much, but it's good when I do. 

There's my cat. I like my cat. A lot. 

And yes, Anya. There's this fucking diary. 

It's good, it's excellent, it's spectacular, and I'm so much better. 

That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it?

***

I missed one. 

I've got a friend.

He's called Otabek, and he's got a motorbike.

I'm keeping him to myself. 

The diary doesn't need to know everything, asshole. 

***

I watched a funny film with Viktor today and I laughed. 

I laughed a lot. 

That's good, isn't it Anya.

***

That sounded sarcastic, it wasn't, I'm doing okay. 

I'm doing better. 

***

Last night, I looked at the ceiling, and told myself that all is not well in the land of parents and it was okay. 

***

You came clean, Anya. 

You told me you'd read this, and that you were glad I was doing better. 

I'm sorry for throwing your weird little statue thing out of the window. 

I suppose I should say thank you.

***

Thank you.

***

Thank you for coming clean and for helping me. 

You did and I'm a stubborn little shit.

***

My name is Yuri Plisetsky, I'm seventeen years old and I'm less fucking depressed.

Happy, Anya?

(You should be, you helped me get better.

Thank you again.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! It would mean the world if you would comment. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
